


Tag der Nacht

by lichtkleid



Category: Rammstein
Genre: F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:39:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtkleid/pseuds/lichtkleid
Summary: The wound marked the end of his career as an athlete; nobody could rely on a wounded swimmer, and the GDR certainly didn’t. But what is an athlete to do when his golden days are over?





	Tag der Nacht

The pain was above anything he had ever felt or imagined in his life. It seemed that a red-hot knife had been plunged into his stomach and was tearing him apart from the inside. He jerked in the water, trying to find something to hold on to, desperately trashing, unable to keep his head high. Someone grabbed his arm, tried to lead him, but he was too panicked to follow. A voice screamed that Lindemann needed a doctor, to get a doctor, now, that something was wrong, and he didn’t register it. He believed for a second that he was going to die there, drowning in the clear water of the Olympic pool. The lights were very bright, and the hands clutching his body, swimming him to safety, were too rough and cutting off blood.  
He was hauled onto cold tiles and a swarm of students grouped around him. A mess of voices, of worried exclamations, of screams, surrounded him. He tried to clutch at the ground, but his body was cold and his fingers didn’t respond.  
Then all strength left him. Sprawled on the ground, face pressed against slippery porcelain, eyes widened in pain, he couldn’t even find it in him to cry. His mind was overworked, but he felt lightyears away. His eyes zeroed on the streaks of dirt staining the gaskets and, disgusted, he faintly tried to move his head. Voices kept calling his name, urging to respond. In the depth of his thought, he knew it was too late. No doctor could come fast enough to keep him from dying. This pain wasn’t something that can be survived. It felt like his body had been torn in two – he could almost feel his blood pouring inside his chest. Slowly, an overwhelming urge to sleep washed over him, cold seized his heart, and he gave into it.  
He felt himself being lifted up, laid down onto a stretcher, and curled up immediately, clutching at the injury. Every step stabbed him with pain, and he grunted like a wounded animal, feeling cold water dropping from his hair as they wheeled him away. Then lights flickered above him, his head fell back, and he lost consciousness.

For the tear in his stomach, he underwent several surgeries and the scar would never fade. It marked the end of his career as an athlete; nobody could rely on a wounded swimmer, and the GDR certainly didn’t. And what's an athlete to do once his golden days are over?

He lost his place at the sports school and was sent back to his mother’s home near Schwerin, where he spent the spring recovering.  
She set up his old bedroom for him. While he had been away in Rostock, it had been occupied by his little sister, and the room was still full of her stuff. He took him a long time to settle back in his childhood home, in this room that was full of paper roses and of children books that he had himself never read. But he had no choice but to get used to it again. He knew there was no big future in a western land now, no more travelling to sunny Italy, no more smiling girls on the benches.  
He resented the wound in his stomach more than anything, knowing that he would not have been allowed to compete in Moscow even without it, but it drove him mad. The last four years of his life had been wasted in a pool, and he was now lying there, without a future, without any education, too stupid to learn anything and too old to start over. He felt more useless than ever, felt too guilty to even eat the food that his mother lovingly prepared, couldn’t bear his sister’s kind words and only wanted to drink himself numb. Following his father’s footsteps seemed the best way now.  
His mind was running and running endlessly in his useless body, and he watched the sunrise, day after day, sleeping too much, bored out of his mind. He mindlessly picked up old editions of Frösi and of Bummi that laid around and read them half-heartedly, marvelling at how different his sister was, then the magazines fell out of his hand and he slept again, wracked and unhappy.

That year, the spring seemed to drag, delaying the summer days, washing the earth with fine rains and soft winds, keeping flowers on the trees for longer than usual. Till, curled in bed, read book after book, aloud to his sister, and silently to himself. He could almost feel his body weakening as the days passed and he was idle, exhausted, with a mind running too fast and a broken body. The air in the room was stale and warm. With his constant reading and the need to entertain himself,came back his old dream of being a fisherman, of writing, away at sea, in silence and in storm. Nauseated with boredom, he dreamed of going back to the coast and the sea, eyes wide open, and could almost smell the salt and the wind from his bedroom.  
But the future terrified him. He was alone there. Most of his friends were still healthy, still swimming, competing for the Olympics that were coming up, and an ugly, new jealousy reared its head in him when he thought of them. He had hated sports school, hated competing, hated losing, but that year, all the odds had been in his favors, and he was the best in his team, there was no denying. Yet, he was there, wracked and useless, while his place was being taken. And when he closed his eyes, instead of his childhood's bedroom, he saw the clarity of the white pool in Rostock, the blue porcelain at the bottom, and could smell Florena cream as if he was still rubbing his body with it after training. Sometimes, his childhood friends came to visit him, they brought cigarettes and he smoked too fast, too much, and almost shamefully. Detlev was the only one he was happy to see. They had been close in their childhood and had kept on writing even after Till had been sent off to Rostock.

Detlev spent hours by his side, smoking stolen cigarettes and playing cards, telling him of the life in the village while Till himself was riveted. The tiniest detail of a life outside the bedroom seemed compelling and fascinating. He had stopped going to school, didn't seem worried about it, and didn't understand Till's doubts about his future. Education, he said, was more than sitting in class and listening to old-fashioned teachers who had themselves no interest in their subject. Till didn't think to argue. He didn't think highly of school, didn't even feel the need to go back and get his Abitur, but he felt incompetent when he thought of his mother and father, who held high positions and deserved them. He didn't need much to work at the factory, he knew, and he wouldn't be happy spending a life hidden away in a lab, researching and working his life away, but he still regretted not having had a choice earlier.  
Had he been successful in sports, he wouldn't have had to worry until his thirties...

An eternity later, he finally crept out of bed and started to take long walks in the countryside, near the lakes. His sister often hopped behind him, a basket in her hand, ready to be filled with berries. The summer was coming and the air had warmed while he was recovering. The grass was high, the leaves green and dense, and his home was more beautiful than ever. With each day, he spent more time outside than in, dreading the moment when he'd have to go back to his room and rest. Laying down nauseated him. He yearned to exercise, to eat, to drink, and to have sex again. 

He hung out at Detlev's place a lot. He had two siblings that needed to be taken care, now that the summer holidays were beginning. They were twins, a boy and a girl, and needed constant supervision. Their mother worked at a factory nearby and came back late, often drunk and always exhausted. Till met her quite soon, and she told him to have dinner with them. You're always welcome, she had said, one more, one less, at this table, it doesn't matter.  
He had wondered if she hinted at her husband, who had left after the twins' birth and who hadn't given a signe of life since. But of course, he had not commented, and hat thanked her. The table had been set outside, it was a little wobbly on the uneven ground of the garden, and covered with a checkered cloth. They sat on wooden stools. Irina, the mother, mumbled something about wanting to buy a rocking chair. Detlev didn't say a word. He wasn't looking at Till nor at his mother, and pretented to busy himself with the twins. They ate soljanka with dark bread in the silence of the evening, with red wine. Irina drank fast and kept refilling her glass and Till's. He didn't know how to refuse, he was afraid of being rude, but he felt himself growing light-headed. It had been a while since he had drunk that much , and silently reached out for the bread, breaking it discreetly and stuffing it in his mouth. Nobody was breaking the silence. Only when the second bottle of wine was emptied, Irina turned away from the table with disinterest and lit up a cigarette. Till watched her smoke it with covetousness, unable to remember the last time he could actually afford one, but Irina didn’t seem interested in sharing. Instead, she stared into the nothingness with blank eyes. When she reached out for her glass, forgetting that it was empty, her hand knocked it over and it fell on the table, loudly hitting the rim of the plate. Detlev’s cheeks were burning with shame. He stood up abruptly, gathered his siblings and marched to their bedroom without adding a word.  
Till barely registered his departure. He had drunk too much and after spending so many days in his room, an irrepressible need to do something huge and dumb nagged at him. It seemed to him that he was waking up from a long dream, from a sticky, heavy sleep and still burdening his ankles.  
Detlev’s mother was still smoking, in utter silence, eyes closed on memories she wasn’t sharing. Her cigarette was burning between her fingers, the ash falling onto the tables, and he dreamt of snatching it from her hand.  
The night was falling, and the single candle burning on the table was attracting moths. A very light breeze made the flame dance, and the rustling of the new leaves seemed very loud. Irina looked beautiful in the candlelight, her skin seemed golden and warm and her lips soft.  
Till decided to stop thinking, reached out, and rested his hand on hers. It startled her, but she didn’t move. Her hand was tiny and the fingers were pale around the knuckles, with tired, already washed-out skin. The nails were dirty and trimmed very short, contrasting with the care she obviously put in her hair and her skin. But her hand felt so small and fragile in his, that he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. An acute need to protect her, who had never needed his protection, and never would, seized him. He bent over very slightly and kissed her knuckles. Against his lips, he felt her tremble.

He looked up at her and her eyes were unreadable, but she was stroking his fingers with her thumbs. And he decided to push his luck, now that it was just the two of them and that it was dark. The candle was burning out on the table.  
Wax dripped on the floor.  
He knelt on the ground, dried grass poking at his knees, and rested his head on her thigh. He filled his lungs with the scent of soap, of clean skin and of the wilderness, drawing long breaths like a drowned man, finally living. Nose pressed against her leg, eyes closed, he felt the coarse texture of her jeans against his cheek, and, after a very long while, the gentleness of cold fingers in his hair. He reached out, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her thigh, and waited for solace.


End file.
